


Is there such a thing as colleagues with benefits?

by iguessyouregonnamissthepantyraid



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers to Friends, Friends With Benefits, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Now there's a new one, definitely not intended to be romantic though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:07:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6244609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iguessyouregonnamissthepantyraid/pseuds/iguessyouregonnamissthepantyraid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Michaela contemplates the nature of her and Asher's relationship, and Asher continues to be a giant mess of guilt and anxiety and ever-increasing self-deprecation.</p><p>Honestly I just really wanted someone to hug Asher and their hook-up last episode gave me a good excuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is there such a thing as colleagues with benefits?

As it turns out, Asher likes to cuddle.

Of course, the first time there hadn’t been any _time_ for cuddling. It was all rushed and clumsy, both of them reeking of alcohol, their hushed words slurred and both of them barely knowing what they were doing. Michaela doesn’t remember much of that night, but she _does_ remember that it took her way too long to fumble with his belt buckle than it should have. She also remembers someone coming into the bathroom, and Asher hastily gathering her up, her legs tightly wound around his waist, and carrying her into one of the stalls before the stranger could see them. They stood there trying—and failing, Michaela doesn’t doubt—to suppress their giggles, her back pressed against the wall and her legs still around his waist, as they waited for the intruder to leave.

The only other thing about that night she remembers is how _absurdly_ talented Asher is with his tongue. It’s half the reason she allowed their little slip-up to become a regular thing.

_“Oh God, we’re gonna do that again, aren’t we?”_

_“Yes, please.”_

The second time was after sneaking away from having drinks with the others to end up in Asher’s apartment, and after they laid there for a few moments catching their breath, Asher said, “You can stay over… if you want. I mean, we’re both not really sober, so you shouldn’t, you know, drive or anything.” He paused for a beat, and then turned his head to look at her. “I’d take the couch, so you’d… you know, have the bed.”

At that she remembers laughing, loudly, and she said, “Asher, really, you have _literally_ been inside me. We can share a damn bed.”

He reacted immediately, a big dumb grin spreading over his face as he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in to spoon.

The third time was in Michaela’s apartment. That time she didn’t quite feel like sleeping with someone else, but even though she knew he would get up and leave her in peace if she asked, she didn’t ask. That psycho was still out there, somewhere, and even though Asher probably wouldn’t be much help against a serial killer, it still felt safer than being alone. She curled up against his chest and fell asleep within seconds.

The fourth time was in Annalise’s basement. _Whoops._

This time was the fifth time. Michaela doesn’t count when they made out in Annalise's house that one time, _so yeah_ , she thinks, _this was definitely the fifth time_. Asher fell asleep a while ago with his arm around her waist, both of his legs wrapped around one of hers. Her head is pillowed on his bicep, and occasionally he’ll let out a quiet snore into his own pillow. Not for the first time Michaela thanks whatever god might be listening that Asher’s snoring isn’t as bad when he’s in spooning position.

Usually she falls asleep well before he does. Actually, until now she’s been suspecting that he doesn’t sleep at _all_ , since so far she has always woken up in the morning to an empty bed and the sound of him getting the coffee maker started.

Tonight he’s sleeping like a baby, though.

And in the relative silence of Asher’s apartment, Michaela’s mind wanders everywhere.

Her thoughts mainly circle back to the same general question though. How on _Earth_ had she wound up being friends-with-benefits with _Asher Douche-face Millstone?_ She can’t even believe they’ve become _friends_ , let alone friends with _benefits._

Although, she wonders, _are_ they friends now? He still grates on her nerves if not outright pisses her off _several_ times a day, so that hasn’t changed. All that’s changed, really, is how many orgasms she’s been having. And yeah, maybe there’s a sort of comfort here, a sort of understanding between them that they both need _somebody_ , and they’re both in the same whirlwind of a shitty situation, and sex is a damn good distraction and a much better alternative to alcoholism. But they don’t talk about that.

_Is there such a thing as colleagues with benefits?_

Just as that thought crosses her mind, Asher jolts awake.

His sudden gasp and the way he flinches against her startles her—actually, it scares the shit out of her. There was no whimpering in his sleep, no tossing and turning or any warning at all, and she hastily props herself up on her elbows to stare wide-eyed at him, her heart pounding, her train of thought completely derailed.

“ _Jesus,_ Asher!”

The only light is from the streetlights filtered through his curtains, but her eyes adjusted a while ago. She can see him struggling to catch his breath, looking every which way as he slowly realizes where he is. When it seems to occur to him that he had been dreaming, he gulps and rolls onto his back, rubbing his hands roughly over his face.

Michaela waits, watching as he stares up at the ceiling and blinks a few times, his chest still heaving.

He bites his lip, takes a slow breath, and then says, “My—my bad. Crazy nightmare.”

The first thing she wants to do is fire back with, _Yeah, no shit, I got that_ , but she decides against it. She shakes her head.

“I wasn’t asleep yet. It’s fine.”

He looks at her then, raising an eyebrow. “Not sleeping?” he asks, a bit of concern breaking through the grogginess in his voice. “You okay?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m better than you are.”

The slight edge in her voice barely fazes him. He just lets out a little breath that she thinks was supposed to be a laugh, and he nods before opening up his arms in silent invitation.

She knows she’s supposed to ask him if he wants to talk about it. But it’s just so much easier to ignore it, to press herself up against his side and settle her head into the dip between his shoulder and his chest.

Asher shifts for a second, trying to get comfortable, and Michaela snorts.

“Already got something to adjust, huh?”

He chuckles at that, and Michaela finds it a little concerning that she’s proud of herself for it.

“Nah,” he whispers, “not yet. But I mean, there’s a hot girl in my bed, so don’t be surprised if it happens.”

She smiles, but she doesn’t acknowledge the super cheesy compliment. She’s aware of how hot she is, especially given how vocal he is about her ass whenever they’re alone. She can hear his pulse under her ear, thrumming away, still not quite as slow as it should be. His breathing slows down, though, and he gently runs his thumb over her upper arm. The movement lulls her into something that isn’t quite sleep, but it’s getting there.

She has no idea how long has passed before he speaks up again. She might have dozed off for a bit, but she’s at least slightly awake when his whisper breaks through the silence of the apartment.

“Hey, Mick-Kay-Kay?”

She groans to let him know she’s heard. That’s the most effort she’s willing to make right now.

Asher pauses for a moment, and with her ear pressed to his chest she actually hears him gulp. His voice comes out even quieter when he says, “You know I wouldn’t rat you guys out, right? Like, even… even in jail, when I’ve got nothing left to lose. I wouldn’t rat you guys out.”

It takes her brain a second to catch up with his words. Her brow furrows, her mind struggling to push through the groggy fog, and she lifts her head up to frown at him.

“What?”

“I just… I don’t want you worrying about it. About me, uh, knowing. About—about what happened. You don’t have to worry about it. No one’s gonna find out about it from me. Even when all this shit hits the fan and I go to prison, it’ll just be me, okay?” he says, with a poor attempt at a half-smile. “None of you guys. I won’t… I won’t turn on you, or… or any of them. Not even Annalise. I mean, sad as it is you all are pretty much the closest thing I—”

“If.”

Asher’s voice catches in his throat, and he raises an eyebrow at her. “… Huh?”

“ _If_ all this shit hits the fan. _If_ you go to prison,” she corrects him, “which isn’t happening anyway, so stop worrying so much about it.”

He gives her a sad smile. “The D.A. knows I was in the parking garage. That’s the last place Sinc—the last place she was seen, before…” he trails off, shaking his head. He sniffs. “Anyway, it’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine, but I already have it figured out. I’ll tell them that I—that I put her in the trunk, and that one of you guys called me to tell me that Annalise got shot, and then I figured I could bring her body there, make it—make it look like she was pushed off or—or she jumped, and I figured with the whole thing being so confusing anyway that no one would think—”

“Asher, _stop_ ,” she cuts him off, propped up on her elbows now, and she plants one hand firmly on his chest to make it clear that she _means_ it. “You are _not_ going to prison. Understand? No one is going to prison.”

“It’s okay. I can, it’s fine, you don’t have to worry about me telling anyone—”

“ _God_ , Asher, shut up! That doesn’t matter,” she all but shouts. “It doesn’t matter because you’re _not going to prison_.”

She can see his jaw shaking, but he takes a slow breath and visibly tries to reign in his emotions, not looking at her anymore. He stares up at the ceiling, and what he says next comes out so quietly she barely hears it.

“I deserve to.”

Michaela stares at him for a moment.

And before she can stop herself, she starts to say, “No, you—”

“ _Please_ , please don’t tell me I don’t deserve to go to prison,” he stops her, shaking his head. “I can’t… I can’t hear that right now, okay? I—I _killed_ someone.”

“So did we!”

“No,” he argues, shaking his head again. “ _God_. Stop acting like you’re all as guilty as I am, _please_. I can’t… It’s not the same! Sam attacked Rebecca, and—and you guys acted in self-defense, you didn’t have a _choice_. You guys don’t deserve to go to prison for that! _I_ do. She— _Sinclair_ , all she did was her _job_ , and she was a fucking _person_ , a real living person, and she’s dead because of me. She had parents, and two brothers, and—and—and you know she had a boyfriend, too?”

Michaela just shakes her head.

Asher nods and rubs the heel of his palm against his cheek, stubbornly wiping away tears. “She did. He was in one of the articles about her. And _both_ of her parents are still alive, they—they lost their _kid._ And… and she probably had friends too, people who _cared_ about her, and they think—what, that she killed herself? That Kathryn killed her? _God,_ I—I could have—if I had just stayed there, kept the car in park, she’d still be _alive!_ I drove that car over her because I thought it was her fault, but—but it _wasn’t_ , it was _mine_ , and—and if I—if I stayed in control, if I kept acting like a normal, sane human being for just a few more _fucking_ seconds—”

“ _Asher_ ,” she interjects, because now she’s starting to think he’s on the verge of hyperventilating.

She moves closer to him and hesitantly wraps her arms around his neck. She expects him to push her away, to argue more, but instead he just _melts_ into her, shaking and sobbing with his face buried in her shoulder and his fingers digging into her bare back. He’s still talking, but his voice is all choked and wet now, only the occasional few words making it out between sobs, things she would have expected like _oh, God,_ and _I’m so sorry_ , and _it’s all my fault._

It barely crosses her mind that this situation—her being nice to him, her holding him and comforting him as he cries—is even more insane than them sleeping together. She doesn’t think about it. She _does_ think about the desperate way he’s clinging to her, the fact that he’s broken beyond repair because of _them_ , and she gently runs her fingers through his hair and quietly reminds him to breathe every so often. She doesn’t tell him it’s okay. She knows it’s not.

She gives him a minute, and when he’s quieted down a bit she says, “It’s not all your fault.”

He shakes his head against her, still crying but clearly ready to argue.

She doesn’t give him the opportunity. “I’m serious. I’m not just saying that to make you feel better, Asher,” she says. “What happened to your father, it was awful”—she feels him tense at the mention of his father, but she presses on—“and we all heard about it, but we didn’t _do_ anything about it. None of us could even call you to see if you were okay, to help you, or… whatever friends do when something like that happens. If we had been better friends, then… I don’t know, maybe it would have helped if you had anybody to talk to.”

He pulls away from her a bit, rubbing at his face with one hand, still shaking his head. “No, that’s not on you guys. It’s not your responsibility to make sure I don’t snap and _kill_ someone.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” she argues. When he won’t look at her, she places a hand on either side of his face and _makes_ him look at her, bloodshot eyes and all. “If we called you, you would have had someone to talk to. Maybe you wouldn’t even have _been_ in that parking garage. And you know what? Sinclair would never have even been on your ass in the first place if it wasn’t for what we did to Sam. You see? You can just as easily place the blame on all of us. We can spend all our time worrying about what we _should_ have done, but we don’t do that. You’re going to drive yourself insane doing that, Asher.”

Asher sniffs, and he nods. He rolls over to reach for the box of tissues on his nightstand, and he faces away from her as he wipes his face. “I know. I just… I can’t help but feel like I’ll stop driving myself crazy over it if I just finally go to prison for it. I _do_ deserve to go to prison for it.”

He turns back toward her, flopping down on his back and staring up at the ceiling.

Michaela eyes him down for a moment, thinking. As of about three minutes ago, she feels like she and Asher have officially crossed the threshold from still-sort-of-awkward-fuck-buddies-who-barely-like-each-other-when-their-clothes-are-on into very distinct, very difficult to ignore, “friends” territory.

And that essentially makes Asher one of her _only_ friends.

She heaves a sigh.

And then she says, “Asher, we’re not dating.”

His brow furrows, like he isn’t sure he heard her right, and he shoots her a confused look. “… Uh, yeah, I know that.”

She nods. “You’re not my boyfriend. _Michasher_ is never gonna happen, because honestly, you annoy the hell out of me on the best of days,” she says. And then she lowers her voice and adds, “But you’re not a bad person, Asher.”

He huffs and rolls his eyes.

“I mean it. There’s a _real_ bad person out there, the guy that _tortured_ and killed the Hapstalls and probably plans on killing all of us. I’ve been looking over my shoulder every second for the last week, thinking I’ll be next. You think with all this paranoia that I’d be sleeping with someone I didn’t trust?”

It takes him a moment, but eventually he slowly shakes his head in begrudging agreement.

“No, I wouldn’t. You don’t have to believe it right now, because you’re not exactly in the right state of mind to believe it, but just trust my judgement, would you? Trust that I know that you don’t deserve to go to prison for the rest of your life. Because you’re not a bad person. You did something terrible, but you’re still not a bad person.”

She watches him, waiting, as he stares up at the ceiling. She watches his Adam’s apple bob as he gulps, watches as he wipes at his eyes again.

And then, finally, he speaks up.

“… Prattstone.”

Michaela blinks. “ _What?_ ”

He smirks. “I think it’d be Prattstone, not _Michasher._ Or maybe Millspratt?”

She rolls her eyes, planting her hand over his entire face and pushing him away, trying to suppress the urge to laugh.

“Nah, you’re right, not Millspratt,” he says with a little teary laugh. “Definitely Prattstone.”

Michaela manages not to laugh, but she does smile a bit at seeing him like this, at the fact that he’s at least beginning to get back to his normal, annoying self. She knows he's deflecting, but even that is a very _Asher_ thing to do, deflect with humor, try to lighten things up, steer the conversation in a different direction.

She turns onto her back and opens her arms in silent invitation, mirroring what he normally does, and Asher doesn’t need to be asked twice. He flops over on his side, shaking the whole bed, and he wraps both arms around her waist to let his head come to rest on her stomach.

She runs her fingers through his hair again. And if she’s embarrassed at how nice she’s being to him right now, well… no one has to know.

“Thanks, Mick-Kay-Kay,” he whispers.

She pauses in stroking his hair to swat at his head. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”

His laugh is silent, but it shakes both of them. “Thanks, though,” he repeats, still in a whisper, his voice thick and tired. “Means a lot, ‘specially coming from you.”

She just shakes her head and returns to running her nails gently over his scalp, trying to get him into a hopefully dreamless sleep.

Maybe, with any luck, she might follow suit this time.


End file.
